Fullmetal Fireheart
by Selenolatry
Summary: Celaena as Ed. Nehemia as Al. Dorian as the ice-wielding, short-tempered Colonel and Chaol as his annoyed, sword-wielding assistant. What could go wrong? (I wrote this in 40 minutes during a caffeine spell. Please don't crucify me.)
Explosions rocked the city in a symphony of bedlam, pillars of steel lighting like wax candles and creating columns of fire. Central wasn't new to terrorist attacks. Being attacked by one of their own on such a grand scale, however, was a different story. Lieutenant Colonel Havilliard slammed his desk phone down, the other landlines in the office blaring like a quartet and beating against his eardrums, making the headache currently cradling his skull even uglier. "Lieutenant!" Dorian barked, the alchemist close to freezing all the power lines at headquarters.

"No need to yell, Your Majesty," came the blunt reply as a familiar form melted from the shadows, sword swinging from his hip. A book was in his right hand, cluing the Colonel in on his usual late-night (and unsanctioned) library escapades. Apparently half the city being lit on fire didn't warrant his immediate concern.

Dorian was already cutting him a look almost as lethal as the poison-tipped (but thankfully sheathed) sabor between them at the mocking nickname, nevermind the fact he was slacking on duty. "Where is she?" he ground out.

"Fullmetal?"

"No, the Fuhrer's wife. Of course Fullmetal!"

Chaol shrugged. "It wasn't my turn to watch her."

"Isn't that part of your job, Lieutenant?"

"My babysitting duties of your reckless subordinate expire past sunset."

"Need I remind you _you_ are a subordinate as well?"

Chaol gave him a bored look, tan face practically carved from stone. As compliant as he was to direct commands and life-threatening situations, his intolerance toward Fullmetal's shenanigans (and personality, and all-around being) made the Lieutenant turn a deaf ear to orders surrounding her, Chaol often storming out or threatening to demonstrate his bladework within 5 minutes of interaction. Dorian still was not so pliant with his adverse mood swings around the girl. Forcing himself not to give the swordsman literal frosted tips to his shorn haircut, the blond Colonel snapped to one of his other men, "Get a line out to Nehemia, then. Hurry!"

As Sorscha, a small brunette filling in as communications, jumped and dialed out a line, Chaol glanced back at his commanding officer. "Do you really believe Fullmetal will be of any help?"

Ice shimmered under Dorian's skin. He crossed his arms, gloved hands wrinkling the sleeves of his uniform. His alchemy was suboptimal to the current terrorist, an alchemist that specialized in fire, and with the other prime candidates away from central and the Fuhrer's time of arrival from the East anyone's guess, their hands were tied. "She's as good a person as any."

Chaol glanced out the high-arched window, the fire's reflection painting his dark eyes amber. His swordsmanship would be of little use in the field, too. He clutched the book in his hand tighter, the air around Dorian threatening to freeze the binding of his philosophy book, one riddled with clues of a similarly fire-painted stone. "Gods help us all, then."

* * *

The rooftops of Central had great footholds, if you knew where to look. Leaning against a soot-coated chimney, the blonde bit into an apple, her jaw almost as strong as the metal hand currently biting divots into the fruit as she gazed out. The night was warm like champagne, the wind rippled through her braid and whistling past her red jacket.

It was almost a serene setting, with an almost romantic outlook. You know, if you ignored the explosions and chaotic alchemic terrorism and whatnot.

The girl was almost done with her snack and estimating how far she could chuck the core (and whether a landing hit would be lethal to any passer-byers) when she heard the familiar singing of alchemy and a companioning voice inquiring, "You realize this _isn't_ the time to be searching for a scenic outlook, yes?"

The alchemist turned to her appearing partner as alchemy carried her to the rooftop. "Wow. It's almost like you read my mind. Quick, what number am I-"

"3."

"Dammit."

Nehemia shook her head, dark ponytail clocking behind her. Alchemy fizzled out at her feet, the dark-skinned alchemist not as proficient with the art of equivalent exchange (or the art of randomly scaling buildings) as the opposing 17-year old, a chalk-drawn transmutation circle in the alleyway below helping build the temporary staircase to the roof for her. It didn't help that most of her body was weighed down by the same metal in the other girl's right arm and left leg. Nehemia stopped a few feet from the blue-eyed girl, arching a delicate eyebrow. "Now, if you're done admiring the rampaging alchemist's handiwork, the Lieutenant Colonel is asking for your assistance in capturing him. If this guy doesn't burn the capital to the ground, Dorian might just freeze it out of frustration."

"Working me past the clock again? I'm going to have to talk with Havilliard about child labor laws."

"I believe you signed those rights away, along with the rest of your freedom as a dog of the military," Nehemia remarked dryly. "Besides, I don't see why you're complaining. I assumed this would be right up your alley."

"It is. I wanted to finish my apple first, though. Good nutrition and all that." She patted her flat stomach. She was still trying to build up her strength after damage to her mechanical arm left her bitching and moaning and preoccupied all last month, the pain making her forget her appetite and the broken sinew keeping her from training with Dorian's Lieutenant. Nehemia knew how much that had set her back. Still, she sighed like the true admonishing and impromptu sister she was, knowing a missed apple or two wouldn't be life-threatening.

"Nutrition or no, I suggest you hurry. Aside from the freezing the nation's capital, Dorian's threatening to assign Chaol as a full-time babysitter if you keep slacking off."

"Eck. _Really_ wouldn't want that." Missing the Lietenent's hell-like running practice had almost been a blessing in disguise last month- and that was at the cost of losing her right arm for a sixth time. Gods know she'd go crazy under a full-time watch from the eagle-eyed attendant. Pocketing the remaining apple for later, much to Nehemiah's distaste and wrinkled nose, the girl stretched her now functional arms over her head, popping her spine like a languished, large cat. "Well then, let's get a move on, shall we?"

"Please try to limit your destruction during your heroic saving this time."

The blonde lowered her arms only to shrug haphazardly, not particularly caring if she took down another building or 12. "I'll try my best, but you know what they say." She flashed a wicked smile, the metal of her automail arm, or maybe the first spark of her alchemy, flashing in the dark. "Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire." And with that, Celaena Sardothien, the Fullmetal Alchemist, the Fireheart of Amestris, vaulted from the rooftop, careening toward the eye of Central with her ever-vigilant partner at her heels.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Forgive me, SJM, for I have sinned. I had a headcanon and I rolled with it._


End file.
